


Reclamation

by hapax (hapaxnym), miraworos



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst with a Happy(ish) Ending, Aziraphale Loves Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale is an angel for the LGBTQA community, But like it's not entirely his fault, Crowley Loves Aziraphale (Good Omens), Gabriel is the literal worst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Oblivious Aziraphale (Good Omens), POV Aziraphale (Good Omens), Post-Canon, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Suicidal Thoughts (brief mention), religious angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-19
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-18 03:49:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28860573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hapaxnym/pseuds/hapax, https://archiveofourown.org/users/miraworos/pseuds/miraworos
Summary: Years after the failed apocalypse, Aziraphale struggles to come to grips with his unintentional role in inspiring a centuries-old religious sect. It hardly helps that he only sees Crowley once a year on the anniversary of their Arrangement. The more time goes by, the deeper he slips into a mental fog he can't seem to climb out of. Can he find peace with himself after so long? Or will his inability to accept who he truly is cause him to lose Crowley forever?
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 31
Kudos: 59
Collections: Do It With Style Good Omens Reverse Bang





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Eternal thanks to my event partner [Hapaxnym](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hapaxnym/pseuds/hapax) for her gorgeous mosaic (pictured below!) which inspired this story, as well as to my beta-for-life [Z A Dusk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snakeandmoon/pseuds/Z%20A%20Dusk) for constant encouragement and phone-a-friend lifeline when I got completely out of my depth angst-wise. Both of them helped shape this story into the absolute best version of itself it could be. I could not have done it without them. <3333 
> 
> And PRO TIP: Do yourself a favor and **go read their fics**. They are both incredible writers with gorgeous work you will absolutely devour. Trust me on this.

_“When they were filled, he said unto his disciples, Gather up the fragments that remain, that nothing be lost.” —John 6:12_

Aziraphale looked up at the old stone edifice. It wasn’t ancient, not by his standards. But it was old, even for him. A seventh of his life on the earth God had made. Longer, actually, as the building had been something else before it became a church. Something else entirely, though equally as divine.

Aziraphale took a breath to shore up his resolve. It was hard, this particular day. So much had gone right, at least in his estimation, and yet so much had been left unsaid, undone. Change had always been tricky for the angel, like a clock trying to operate with several gear teeth missing. He could adapt to the alternate workings with time, but it always took discipline and effort. 

Not so with his counterpart. He took to change like a duck to…well, whatever it is ducks take to. But Aziraphale always struggled at first. And the faster things changed, the more he struggled. Fast and large changes were the worst for him, so the averted apocalypse threw him for quite the loop. While it was true that nothing on the surface of the earth had changed, the opposite was true for Aziraphale—everything had changed for him.

He’d taken a holiday, after. And then that holiday had expanded into a sabbatical. Which then elongated into a permanent leave. 

But he’d taken care to return on the anniversary of the Arrangement. He couldn’t not.

“Still licking our wounds, are we?” came Crowley’s smooth greeting, as he sauntered up to Aziraphale.

The angel lightly scoffed but returned the greeting. “Hello to you, too, dear.”

“You gonna go in?” Crowley asked, gesturing with his chin at the church.

“We both can,” Aziraphale said. “It’s been decommissioned, which means it’s no longer consecrated. It would be nice to see it again before they knock it down, don’t you think?”

Crowley shrugged in the way that meant it mattered too much to him to show that it mattered at all. Aziraphale’s earlier irritation melted completely upon seeing the familiar gesture. He wasn’t the only one hurting, then, which just made him hurt all the more.

Crowley shouldered open the old wooden door. They didn’t make doors like that anymore, solid, heavy, ornate. Doors today were more likely glass or even open air. The year-round balmy weather made doors like this undesirable, and modern materials were a wonder that never ceased to amaze Aziraphale. What humans wouldn’t come up with next.

The darkness of the interior fell on Aziraphale like the welcome shade of an oasis in the desert. The domes and arches of stone, though small in comparison with other churches he’d known, held a resonance for him born of history and familiarity.

“Hello, you,” he said softly, as he stroked a nearby pillar.

“C’mon, angel.”

Crowley seemed a bit pensive, hands stuffed in his pockets, shoulders caved in, as he glanced furtively around, no doubt cataloguing all of the changes since they’d been there last. For his part, Aziraphale had given up mourning the losses as the building had changed hands over the centuries. What mattered was what it represented, that it was still there after everything, though he supposed it wouldn’t be for much longer.

“Are you alright?” Aziraphale asked.

“Tip top, never better,” the demon replied.

“Not terribly convincing, dear. Would you care to try again?”

Crowley stopped to light a stub of a votive candle with his finger. The flame bloomed brighter in the dim alcove than it had any right to, given the layers of dust over the votive stand and that none of the candles had much in the way of wax left.

“I’m fine, angel,” he said without looking at Aziraphale. “Just…s’been awhile.”

“Yes,” Aziraphale said simply, because it had.

“I was half convinced you wouldn’t show up this time,” Crowley said.

The urge to reach out to the demon gripped Aziraphale, but it would pass eventually, if he waited long enough. “Of course I came. I will always come.”

“Even after…?” Crowley swallowed the rest of the question, and Aziraphale understood his reluctance. He, too, didn’t want to admit how much he’d miss this place.

“It’s just a building, Crowley," he said, hardly more convincing than Crowley had been a moment ago. He tried to force a bit more brightness into his tone as he continued. "Something will replace it, and we’ll come back and tour that instead.”

“It isn’t just a building, though, is it?”

“How do you mean?” Aziraphale said, though he knew exactly.

Crowley had already meandered along the narthex, though, towards the northern aisle.

“It’s all a bit surreal, isn’t it?” Crowley went on finally.

“Which part?”

“Evolution,” Crowley answered, stopping at a fresco of the Last Supper. “Remaining a fixed point in a universe that dances.”

“I do know how to dance, Crowley.”

Crowley grinned at him then, a flicker of his old self glinting through. “The only angel that ever did,” he said, sounding proud.

Aziraphale blushed. “Oh, hush. We both have. We both…”

He’d been about to say _do_ , but when was the last time he’d danced? A century ago? Two? He was forgetting the steps, the names of the people he’d danced with, and it filled him with immeasurable sadness.

“I-I see your point, dear. The world does rather move on around us.”

“Don’t look like that,” Crowley said, chastened. “I didn’t mean to rain on your picnic or anything.”

Aziraphale gave him a small conciliatory smile. “It’s alright. And anyway, it’s not just my picnic. We both played a role in saving the world.”

“Eh, not me so much,” Crowley said. “Mostly just cocked the whole thing up.”

“Which made it possible to prevail at all, you know.” 

Crowley shrugged again and picked a pew to slide into. Aziraphale was less sure about following him. Sitting in a pew felt much more intimate than touring the building. But then the demon patted the wooden bench next to him.

“I won’t bite,” he said.

Aziraphale obliged and settled in next to him, though not close enough to touch. There were some boundaries one couldn’t cross, not after imprisoning oneself so long behind them. The trench had been dug too long and too deep by this point.

Crowley leaned back against the pew, long legs stretched out in front of him, and he sighed deeply.

“It’s a Hell of a thing, isn’t it?”

“What?”

“That,” he said, gesturing to the centerpiece mosaic, the focal point of the sanctuary. 

“Ah, yes. That.”

Aziraphale’s eyes flicked up at it and down again quickly. 

“You can’t even bear to look at it, can you?” Crowley said, arms crossed and sounding bitter. It was a sore point, and Crowley knew it. Why was he bringing it up again after all these years?

“I feel as if it is…sacrilegious.”

“Sacrilegious for you to look at it? Or sacrilegious that they made it at all?”

“Both, I imagine.”

“But sacrilegious to _who_?”

“‘To whom,’ dear,” Aziraphale corrected automatically.

“Don’t you remember, angel?” Crowley carried on, ignoring him. “Heaven and Hell gave us the axe. Literally.” He sighed again, more heavily this time. “What happened to us having our own side?”

Aziraphale struggled through the fog he floated through most of the time lately. So many days he sort of came to, discovering the date had advanced by a month or more, though he had no memory of doing anything in the intervening days. Perhaps he should mention this to Crowley to see if the demon had experienced something similar. Or perhaps not. Perhaps he didn’t really want to know the answer. 

Either way, he didn’t like to think about their near deaths, but he did remember. 

“It’s not that easy, Crowley. There are certain modes and … and … conditions that are woven into the very fabric of one’s being, even without Head Office breathing down one’s neck.”

“Yeah, I know,” he said, sounding weary. “But you helped them, and they just…wanted to remember it. Nothing wrong with that.”

“I didn’t do all that much,” Aziraphale whispered, hearing his voice carry through the nave regardless. “And I didn’t do it alone,” he added with a soft look at the demon that he couldn’t seem to help.

“Well, if you won’t look at it, shall I describe it to you?”

“I wish you wouldn’t.”

But Crowley barreled on regardless. “You know they made it out of broken bits of stained glass and pottery they collected as a community. All the colors of the rainbow.”

“Crowley…”

“I’m not going to stop, Aziraphale. This church will be gone tomorrow, and you’ll never see it again. You owe it to them to remember.”

“I thought you just said _they_ were trying to remember _me_.”

“It goes both ways. Remembrance keeps the candle lit,” he said, gesturing with his head to the votive in its dusty red glass, still beating back the shadows against the wall.

Aziraphale settled into a resigned silence.

“Where was I?” Crowley continued, affecting the air of a storyteller. “Ah, yes, the rainbow..."

  
[Mosiac by Hapaxnym](https://photos.google.com/share/AF1QipOXUpHB1R7Jfnsm4YbIvbCfTS-HJ7sDpxTjGR85kiOnlg4CdGCLIh6q0ey6HOziow?key=UlV2bnFwVnpwcHRaSWM3QjRLbVRPWWRnclIzbUdR)

"It was about restoration, if I recall. Taking something broken and making something new out of it, something beautiful.”

Aziraphale fidgeted, uncomfortable on so many levels he couldn’t even count them all.

“Let’s start with the wings. Garnet, amethyst, and aquamarine feathers that glisten when the light shines through. Open and inviting. Inclusive.”

He paused to shoot Aziraphale a look, no doubt to see if he was listening. But Aziraphale couldn’t shut out Crowley’s voice if he wanted to. The tenor of it soaked into his being like a spring rain into the deep cracks of the Namib desert.

“The Sword is a burnt amber, stretching all the way to the top of the frame and flaming like anything. Protection, salvation.”

“War,” Aziraphale reminded him.

“Not to them. And anyway, it’s balanced by the book. The treasures of the mind. Symbolic of everything worth fighting for.”

“I just…like them.”

“Liked them, you mean,” Crowley said.

“I still see some, from time to time.” 

“‘ _For time is the longest distance between two places_ …’”

“Why are you doing this?” Aziraphale asked, starting to feel more vexed than hazy.

“Because you won’t see it again.”

“Why are you _really_ doing this?” he challenged.

“Because you won’t see _me_ again.”

All Aziraphale's vexation whirled away in a blink of shock and dismay. 

“I beg your pardon?” he said. He must not have heard correctly.

Crowley growled in frustration and stood up, abandoning the pew for the chancel. Heart pounding, Aziraphale hurried to catch up to him, banging his hip painfully on the edge of the pew next to theirs in his rush.

“What do you mean, I won’t see you again?” he said, breathless with more than just haste. “We always see each other on the anniversary of the Arrangement.”

“And only on the anniversary.”

Aziraphale waited for Crowley to clarify.

Crowley stopped and turned to face Aziraphale, his sharp features drawn with exhaustion. “I’m tired, angel. I slept through most of the year since I saw you last, and a good bit of the year before that. I don’t know who I am without—” He cut himself off abruptly, as if he’d nearly said too much.

“Without Hell?” Aziraphale hazarded. “I do understand, dear boy. Without Heaven’s direction, I also struggle. Even to remember things, sometimes. It’s as if my grace is… Well, never mind. But there is more to life than mayhem and temptations.”

Crowley rubbed his eyes under his perpetual glasses, though he needed them less and less these days. His eyes were hardly remarkable anymore, what with all the body modifications humans had invented.

“I can’t anymore, Aziraphale. I can’t…not knowing…”

“Not knowing what, dear?”

Crowley pressed his lips together, closing himself off. “Never mind,” he said, then slinked over closer to the mosaic.

Aziraphale wasn’t quite sure what had derailed their easy camaraderie. Crowley was often enigmatic and sardonic, but this prodding was new. What was he trying to say? If only Aziraphale could think as quickly as he used to. The angel cast about desperately for a way to draw his companion out again.

“I don’t know why they chose me,” Aziraphale said, hoping a return to the original topic would do the trick.

“Because you chose them, obviously. You sheltered them, protected them, guided them when you could. You were their guardian angel.”

“It wasn’t intentional,” Aziraphale said, already regretting bringing it up again. “I didn’t intend to become a…to become a…”

“A saint?”

Aziraphale frowned at the demon. “Saints are human. I’m ethereal.”

“Of course,” Crowley said with an indulgent smile. “Regardless, you became _it_ , whatever it was, because when they were mistreated, ignored, abandoned, or lost faith, you found them and you gave them hope. You gave _me_ hope.”

“That a fall from grace could be survived?”

“That a fall from grace could be the beginning of something better.”

Aziraphale shook his head. Something about that didn’t feel right, but he had difficulty remembering why.

“There is nothing better than God’s love. It’s all part of the Ineffable Plan,” he said by rote.

Crowley sighed heavily, as he continued up the steps to the altar, pausing to wipe a finger through the dust gathered on it. 

“That’s the problem, isn’t it?” he said softly, looking sad. “You still believe there’s a plan.”

Aziraphale snorted in exasperation. “Of course there’s a plan, Crowley. The great plan was wrong, but there _is_ an Ineffable one. We agreed on that. At the air base.”

“ _Agreed_. As in past tense, angel. It’s been ages since that day, and not a word from You Know Who.”

“Just because we can’t see it or hear it or feel it, doesn’t mean it doesn’t exist.”

Crowley turned his back to Aziraphale, crossing his arms, and looking up at the now much closer mosaic.

It was large. It filled the back wall of the sanctuary with color and light. The sword alone had to be as tall as Crowley. It must have taken the artist several months, if not years, to collect enough bits and pieces to finish.

“It’s the green that gets me,” Crowley said at last. “As if they wanted to offer you earth, invite you to stay.”

“It’s the green that gets you?” Aziraphale said, a thread of amusement unspooling through his sorrow. “Not the giant black snake wrapped around my—its—torso?”

Aziraphale knew Crowley well enough to be able to tell when he was rolling his eyes, even with his glasses on.

“Obviously, I was there. They’d have known that.”

Aziraphale sobered again. Crowley had always been there, hadn’t he? Even after Aziraphale had treated him so abominably for Heaven’s sake. It made sense for him to want to distance himself. He’d said as much after their last argument, how long ago now? The years were blurring into a watercolor.

“I wish I could go back,” Aziraphale said aloud without meaning to. “I wish I could change things.”

That made Crowley turn away from the mosaic and stare hard at the angel. Aziraphale fidgeted in discomfort.

“You wish you could go back?” Crowley said with a sardonic twist of lip. “What specific point would you go back to? What would you change?”

Aziraphale opened his mouth to admit he wished he’d never let Crowley stay away so long, but instead what came out was, “I should not have interfered so much. Perhaps it would not have gone as badly as it did if I had let Heaven have its way.”

“Clearly, your memory is lacking,” Crowley said with disdain. “Perhaps I can fix that for you.”

Then with a click of his fingers, the church around them changed, architecture rearranging, the mosaic swirling away, harsh stone taking its place. Dark and dank and cold descended. Aziraphale had forgotten how cold it had once been in this part of the world.

“Crowley, what are you doing?”

“Don’t recognize this place, angel?”

Aziraphale looked around, this memory even hazier than most, but he did recognize it eventually. It was the Streoneshalh Abbey. Sometime around the eighth century? Or perhaps the seventh?

“I recognize it. I just don’t know why you brought me here.”

“Wait for it.”

So Aziraphale waited. Soon enough, a young man opened the door to the confessional box, slipping meekly out, shoulders bowed as if a monolith rested on them. Shortly after, a familiar figure, tall and broad and radiating arrogance on all that surrounded him, exited the priest’s reticule, a smile of gratification carved into his chiseled face.

“Gabriel,” Aziraphale said in unhappy acknowledgement. _This_ was why Crowley had chosen this place. This, ostensibly, was where, and when, it had all begun. “But what—?”

Aziraphale stopped, having turned and noticed that Crowley was gone. Aziraphale frowned in consternation. Interfering serpent. It’s not as if dredging up all of this now would make any difference. 

“Gabriel, was that Caedmon I just saw stumbling out of the chapel? He looked—well, upset hardly covers it. He looked destroyed.”

The Aziraphale of this time had wandered in from the scroll room. Neither angel seemed to notice the Aziraphale of the future watching their interaction play out. 

“He came to me for confession. I gave him his penance.”

“What penance did you give him that would make him look so grim?”

“Mortification of the flesh. Ten lashes. And repudiation of the sin, of course.”

“Self-flagellation?” Aziraphale-of-old said, as present-Aziraphale flinched. “That practice is antiquated. No one issues that sort of penance anymore.”

“It was appropriate in this case,” Gabriel said. “The sin was of the flesh, so must the remedy be.”

“An eye for an eye? That is fairly Old Testament, don’t you think?”

Gabriel turned, facing Aziraphale-of-old directly. “Which is as it should be, as it’s the Old Testament that identifies the sin in question.”

“Which sin might that be? Adultery? Murder?”

“The man is a confessed sodomite, Aziraphale. Claims to be in love with one of his fellow parishioners. Can you imagine? One of these mud-grubbing mayfly mortals imagining themselves to be in love.” Gabriel snorted in disbelief. “As if they have even the slightest concept of what love is.”

“Oh, Gabriel,” Aziraphale-of-old said in a tone of disappointment, just as present-Aziraphale said the same.

Then Aziraphale-of-old turned to follow Caedmon out of the abbey and into the hills, with present-Aziraphale following close behind. Both Aziraphales came upon Caedmon at the edge of the East Cliff, staring out over the water.

“Caedmon, wait,” Aziraphale-of-old said, while present-Aziraphale watched, knowing what would come next. “I know what Father Gabriel told you, but I am granting you an indulgence and commuting the penance. A few Hail Marys should be sufficient.”

“You don’t have the authority to do that, Brother Aziraphale. And even if you did, it wouldn’t make my conduct any less a sin.”

“There are sins, and there are _sins_ , dear boy,” Aziraphale insisted. “If you truly love the person who you…” Aziraphale cleared his throat awkwardly. “If you truly love him, then God will forgive. Love is the whole point.”

“I thought salvation was the whole point,” Caedmon said, peering down from the cliff as if assessing the length of the fall.

“‘For love is of God; and every one that loveth is born of God, and knoweth God. He that loveth not knoweth not God; for God is love.’”

“I don’t understand.”

“Love is God. God is salvation. Therefore, love is salvation. They are all the same.”

Caedmon shook his head. “That’s not what Father Gabriel says.”

“Father Gabriel and I have a small doctrinal disagreement there, but everyone agrees that we are all part of God’s Ineffable Plan. God would not have put love in your heart for this man without a reason.”

Caedmon crossed his arms, his shoulders rounding, as if protecting himself from a blow.

“Father Gabriel says that His reason is to test my faith. But the truth is, I don’t want to live like this, fighting my own heart. It’s constant and bitter and without hope.”

Aziraphale-of-old’s expression softened into an empathy so deep that present-Aziraphale felt it like a knell against his own shadowed heart—an echo of a feeling, faint but still there.

“Do you know the psalms, dear boy?” Aziraphale-of-old said.

Caedmon shook his head.

“Oh, the psalms are absolutely lovely. You simply must read them, or even better, hear them sung. They explain all of this so beautifully, but there’s one in particular: Psalm 139. Let’s see, I believe it goes,

 _O lord, thou hast searched me, and known me..._ _  
_ _Thou ... art acquainted with all my ways._ _  
_ _For there is not a word in my tongue, but thou knowest it..._ _  
_ _Whither shall I go from thy spirit? or whither shall I flee from thy presence?_ _  
_ _If I ascend up into heaven, thou art there: if I make my bed in hell, behold, thou art there._ _  
_ _If I take the wings of the morning, and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea;_  
_Even there shall thy hand lead me, and thy right hand shall hold me..._ __  
_I will praise thee; for I am fearfully and wonderfully made:_  
_marvellous are thy works; and that my soul knoweth right well._

“That is beautiful,” Caedmon said softly when Aziraphale-of-old had finished, his face flush and eyes wet.

“My dear,” Aziraphale-of-old said, clasping Caedmon’s hand and drawing him away from the edge. “You should not punish yourself for how you were made. There is hope. Always.”

“You are so kind,” Caedmon said, half wonderingly, half suspiciously. “I’ve never met a man of God as kind as you.”

“Well,” Aziraphale-of-old said, blushing. “I suppose I should say thank you, but I am simply doing my job as a Princi—er, as a priest. Now, let’s get you someplace warm. It is far too cold on this cliff in the midwinter, you know. You’re all such delicate creatures, really…”

Aziraphale watched as his prior self led the young man away.

“He wasn’t the last you talked off a ledge,” Crowley said as he appeared out of the ether and circled Aziraphale from behind.

“How did you know about this?” Aziraphale said. “I barely remember it.”

“I was here. I witnessed the whole thing,” Crowley admitted. Then he pointed to some nearby brush, where a now-obvious coil of black snake lay perfectly still, watching with unblinking yellow eyes. “I was tempting him to turn back, to ignore Gabriel’s penance, to live his life in sin if it meant his happiness. But I hadn’t gotten very far before you showed up and did the tempting for me.”

“I never!” Aziraphale spluttered. “I was simply showing him a different perspective.”

Crowley shrugged. “To be fair, you did a far better job of it than me. Did you know that he ended up growing _closer_ to the church after this? Wrote religious poetry, just like your bloody psalm. And love poetry as well, though as you can imagine, only the religious poetry survived.”

“I didn’t realize he was _that_ Caedmon,” Aziraphale said. “It was a common name back then. You kept watch over him?”

“Now and then. I wanted to see how your interference would turn out. To be honest, this incident was what gave me the idea for the Arrangement in the first place. When I saw you tempt him—”

“Encourage him!”

“Whatever. When I saw that, I realized that our aims might not be that far apart after all, even if we went about them differently.”

“Our aims were not at all the same,” Aziraphale protested.

“Weren’t they, though? Do you remember what you did after this?”

“I…” Aziraphale thought hard, rubbing his foggy head. “I went and talked to Gabriel.”

“You knew he was a hindrance at best and a threat at worst to the Almighty’s grand experiment.”

“Good lord, I said that?”

“Of course not, don’t be silly. But you convinced him that he was more suited to upper management than to field work. And you dealt with the repercussions of that personally for over a thousand years until the Apocalypse-that-Wasn’t.”

Aziraphale shivered, drawing his coat tighter about himself. “Why did you bring me here?”

“Because I wanted you to remember what would have happened if you hadn’t interfered, if you’d let Heaven have its way. Do you really think Caedmon’s death would have benefited the Ineffable Plan?”

Aziraphale’s stomach felt queasy and his heart hurt. He believed everything he’d told Caedmon, of course he did. And it would seem that his interference had had a positive effect on the man, turning him more towards Heaven rather than away from it. But it didn’t prove that on the whole he’d been right to intercede.

“Take us back, dear boy,” Aziraphale said, his voice sounding resigned even to his own ears. “I’m getting cold.”

Crowley sighed and raised his hand to snap. The medieval landscape disappeared, and the mosaic of himself once again filled Aziraphale’s vision. 

“Now do you see it?” Crowley asked softly.

Aziraphale opened his mouth to answer but was interrupted by another voice behind them.

“Good day, gentlemen. Might I be of service?”


	2. Chapter 2

“Good day, gentlemen. Might I be of service?”

A young woman dressed in the most modern fashion and yet somehow appearing nearly as antiquated in dress as Aziraphale, stepped up to the dais. She smiled engagingly at them, her purple hair pulled into an elegant updo with a few wispy ringlets softening the planes of her face. She looked beautiful and strange to Aziraphale, which, to be fair, was how most humans appeared to him these days.

“We were discussing the mosaic,” Crowley said, gesturing to the wall behind them unnecessarily. “Shame it’s about to be torn down.”

“Yes,” the woman said, smile fading for a moment. “I’m particularly attached to this place, so I feel the impending loss keenly.”

She passed them on the dais, skirts swishing in her wake, and reached up to stroke the lowest glass fragment with a reverent finger.

“What specifically were you discussing, if I may ask?” she said, turning back to regard them with bright, intelligent eyes.

“The historical significance,” Crowley said before Aziraphale could kindly brush her off. The last thing he wanted to do was chat about his ignominy with a complete stranger. “Perhaps, as an admirer of the work, you might know something of its history?”

At Crowley’s suggestion, the woman’s eyes lit up such that Aziraphale felt guilty for so badly wanting to suppress the conversation. She clearly had been waiting for just that invitation to share.

She gestured to the choir stalls as an invitation to sit, clearly preparing to go on at some length. Aziraphale’s heart sank a bit, but he followed the demon’s example and slid into the nearby pew, while their spontaneous lecturer perched on the organist’s bench.

“Society wasn’t always as accepting of diverse identities as it is now, and certainly not nearly as accepting of people deciding for themselves who they wanted to be. There was a very dark period in early recorded history of humiliation, torture, and even killing of anyone who did not conform to what was considered _normal_ for the time period.”

“Revolting word, _normal_ ,” Crowley said. “Nonsensical, and yet still full of judgment.”

Their guide laughed, a delightful sound like tinkling bells. “That’s probably the most concise and accurate description of humanity of that time that I’ve ever heard,” she said with a smirk. “An anthropologist friend of mine wrote a paper theorizing that the impulse to marginalize came from herd survival mentality, but I think it came from fear—fear that if they didn’t target those weaker than themselves, then they’d be targeted.”

Aziraphale had to grant her that. In his experience of the time, that theory seemed to bear out.

“So that’s the backdrop, the context in which our story begins.”

Crowley nodded, though Aziraphale was sure the young woman wouldn’t know the Caedmon story. That part only lived in his and Crowley’s memories.

“The Principality was a man who lived near the turn of the millennium. A man of letters, he collected every scrap of written knowledge he could lay his hands on and squirreled it away in this very building, it’s said.”

“And you know for a fact that this…man…existed?” Crowley said.

“Yes. As I said that was the beginning of true recorded history. Before that, only events of grand significance were recorded with even a kernel of accuracy. Though, honestly, even those accounts were always filtered through some political lens or other. Before true recorded history, we relied on first-hand personal descriptions, which, as anyone knows, can be highly flawed.”

“Evidently,” Crowley agreed. “So you were saying, he lived at that time?”

Their guide nodded. “He loved the written word, especially aberrations, versions of transcriptions that were unique or special. It seems only natural that this same appreciation would transfer to people.”

“How so?”

“As I mentioned, the time was rife with unrest. The feudal system had only recently given way to a system of nation-states, though those in power found ways to hold onto that power by cloaking their influence under a thin veneer of populism. It was still very much the feudal system, but with the illusion that the working class could join the ranks of the nobility through hard work and self-determinism.”

“Apologies, my dear, but how does this relate to the subject? Surely, one man could not have battled an entire system of governance,” Aziraphale said, fidgeting with his cuffs to avoid outright twitching.

“I’m getting there,” she assured him with a sympathetic smile. “Part of the illusion those in power wove over the people to keep them docile was that the root of all their discontent was always their neighbor, never themselves, and absolutely _never_ the nobility that hoarded the vast majority of the civilization’s wealth without ever working themselves.”

“And by _neighbor_ ,” Crowley interjected. “I gather you are referring to those who were considered _not normal_.”

“That’s correct,” she said. Then she looked up to the mosaic with such reverence in her expression that Aziraphale felt distinctly uncomfortable, even as he felt the familiar tugging in his soul to do whatever he could to help her. He hadn’t experienced the compulsion in so long that he’d almost forgotten what it felt like.

Crowley looked at him sharply then, as if sensing the change in him. But he quickly looked away again, his shields returning.

“Do you see the hexagon shape surrounding him?” the young woman asked, pointing to the purple, pink, and light blue border encasing the figure. “The shape symbolizes equality, protection, and communication, which in itself is praiseworthy. But the colors used also represent those that often suffered the most—the transgender and androgynous members of their society, of which I would be one.”

Well, that made sense then as to why Aziraphale had felt the old stirrings to provide aid. Something in his essence had recognized that aspect of hers.

“The Principality’s name, unfortunately, was never recorded, likely for his own safety, as well as the safety of those he helped. But he provided a home for marginalized and disowned youth, in addition to providing spiritual guidance and support for anyone who struggled with reconciling identities that didn’t seem to harmonize with each other.

“Word spread like wildfire, until the Principality had helped hundreds, if not thousands, of people through direct aid and even letters of love and encouragement. He became a rallying point for the members of this disparate community. He became an icon for the belief that each and every person was a unique and valid representation of God.”

Memories surfaced through the perpetual fog in Aziraphale’s mind like points of light in a saturnine sky. A woman, cut and bleeding in a back alley. A boy cast out at eleven years of age. A procession of people from all walks of life, trickling through his bookstore with grave faces and barely a single mote of hope left in their hearts.

“Over time the members of this community grew to support each other and mobilize for change, even without the Principality’s direct intervention. They shared art and stories of him with each other, and his essence rooted itself in their minds. This in itself saved them in many ways during the resurgences of despotism and unrest so prevalent at the time.”

“What happened to him, though?” Crowley asked, his voice a gentle rasp against the stillness of the nave. 

“No one knows,” she said wistfully. “As the icon of him grew in strength, the man himself faded into obscurity. There is no record of his death, just as there is no record of his birth.”

“But there must be a record of his life,” Crowley pressed. “You said yourself that he lived at the time when true recorded history began.”

“As is often the case with beginnings, there were fits and starts and gaps where no gaps would be nowadays. But there is enough to piece together that he was real.”

“And what of the snake depicted?” Aziraphale asked, feeling well and truly tired of being talked about in the third person. “What is the meaning there?

“The snake is more a myth than the Principality,” she said. “According to writings, the parishioners believed that the snake represented rebirth, transformation, and healing. The more dogmatic religions of the time, though, cast the snake in the role of Adversary, claiming that the parishioners of this new upstart religion worshipped the Serpent of Original Sin. Amusingly, scholars now believe, based on recently recovered accounts, that the Principality simply kept some sort of pet snake with him.”

Crowley scoffed. “Pet snake, indeed.”

The young woman twinkled at him. “Do you have a different theory?”

Crowley snorted but kept silent.

“The best part of the mosaic, though—” she said, continuing as if Crowley hadn’t said anything, “—is the part you can’t even see.”

“How do you mean?”

“The entire installation is inlaid on an enormous mirror.”

“That’s-that’s quite remarkable,” Aziraphale admitted, impressed. “It must have been difficult to create such a large—”

“Oh, the beauty is not in the engineering, though that is indeed remarkable,” she said. “No, the beauty lies in _why_ they chose a mirror as a base in the first place.”

“Can’t have been so people could check their hair,” Crowley joked.

Aziraphale elbowed him in the ribs for his impudence, though he did feel a twinge of comfort at the devil-may-care Crowley he remembered making a reappearance, if only briefly. “You were saying, dear?”

The young woman leaned back, regarding them through her spectacles with amusement.

“Why do you think they might have picked a mirror?”

Aziraphale frowned. He never liked riddles, especially ones involving religious iconography of himself. But he hardly liked to be difficult either. Surely the reason wouldn’t be hard to guess.

“I suppose it could have been to reflect their humanity back at them,” he offered out of politeness. “To show them they had it within themselves to save each other all along.”

The woman’s gaze turned a trifle watery. “That wasn’t why, though I do love that explanation. I have no doubt it is the meaning the Principality himself would have ascribed to it.”

Crowley cleared his throat. “If that wasn’t the reason, then what was?”

“To let the light in,” she answered simply. “The chapel faces east. Services were held in the morning, so when the sun rose, its light would shine through the tiles, illuminating the nave.”

“Oh, how lovely,” Aziraphale said, with some relief that the explanation was a mechanical one, rather than a complex, spiritual one, with him at its center.

“But even that is not entirely why,” she said, ruining Aziraphale’s relief. “Every single person who worshipped in this church felt broken by an interpretation of God that wouldn’t accept them as they were, by familial rejection, or by some form of suffering meted out by society. The artist wanted to remind them that no matter how cracked and pieced together they felt, the light of their souls would always shine through.”

“I see,” Aziraphale said, his own eyes feeling suddenly damp. And as he allowed the emotion its sway, the fog loosened its grip on his mind and a question he’d been avoiding for longer than he dared admit floated to the surface. “What exactly happens to a symbol when it’s no longer needed? When the people who constructed it have moved on?”

She looked down briefly and then back up at him, her heart shining clearly through her kind expression.

“It does whatever it wants to, I imagine.”

Then after this enigmatic answer, she rose to her feet, clasping her hands in front of her. 

Aziraphale stood as well. “Thank you so much, my dear, for taking the time.”

“It was my pleasure,” she said with a deferential bow of her head. “Take care, Aziraphale.”

She was halfway to the side door leading to the sacristy before the realization that she had called him by a name she shouldn’t have known penetrated the still- and ever-present fog in his brain.

“Wait,” he called, as she put her hand on the knob. She paused, turning to face him. “How did you know my name? How did you know I was…?”

“The Principality?” she finished for him with a smile. “Well, that's easy. I’m a Descendant.” And with a final swish of skirts was gone.

After a stunned moment of silence, Aziraphale said, “Goodness.”

Crowley chuckled softly and said, “Book-girl would be proud.” Then he gestured for Aziraphale to precede him towards the door at the other end of the nave.

Aziraphale obliged the demon, casting one last glance over his shoulder at the mosaic. It really was incredibly lovely.

When they'd exited the building, Crowley turned a slow, sorrowful smile on Aziraphale. "This is where I leave you, angel."

“Crowley, wait,” Aziraphale said, his head spinning. “Where are you going?”

“Away,” Crowley said. “‘Fraid I won’t make our next appointment.”

“Why not?” Aziraphale's voice came out in a squeak, his heart throbbing arrhythmically in dread.

Crowley scuffed his shoe and rubbed his neck, looking anywhere but at Aziraphale. “Going on a trip.”

“A long trip?” Aziraphale said around the boulder lodged in his throat. 

“Call it a sabbatical,” Crowley said, his voice sounding as rough as Aziraphale's felt. “I’m finally taking that jaunt up to Alpha Centauri we talked about. Remember?”

The bottom dropped out of Aziraphale’s stomach. “Crowley, you can’t. You’ll lose your corporation. You’ll never be able to come back.”

Crowley looked at him then, capturing Aziraphale's gaze with his glasses-obscured one.

“That’s kind of the point, angel.”

“But _why_?”

“You heard book-girl 2.0—we aren’t needed anymore. Humanity’s figured out what we never could. What the entire establishment of Heaven and Hell never could.” 

“I don’t know what—”

“God’s Ineffable Plan, Aziraphale. It’s them.”

“But what if they need us again? They’re peaceful and loving and inclusive now, certainly. But how do we know they’ll stay that way?”

“Aziraphale, it’s been a thousand years since the failed apocalypse—since Adam arrived at the truth himself. A _thousand years_. And yes, they needed us afterwards. Heaven and Hell had almost ended humanity, but not long after, they nearly ended themselves. Plague, war, tyranny, and of course, alienating each other over the lie that difference is sin. But that’s not how it is now. Now we are truly free.”

Aziraphale’s heart twisted at the phrase _difference is sin_.

“Come with me, angel. For old time’s sake.”

“B-but there are things here you love. What about be-bop? What about the Bentley?”

Crowley snorted. “Gifted the Bentley to a museum centuries ago. But I see what you’re saying. Of course, there are earthly delights I still like, but I’m tired. And without purpose. All the other angels and demons retreated from this plane of existence. We’re the only ones left, you and me. And we’re lost. Both of us.”

“We have each other.”

“Do we?”

Aziraphale trembled against the conflict within him. He loved Crowley, of course he did. And Crowley loved him, had always loved him. He’d given Aziraphale more than any other being in existence, perhaps even more than God, who had given him life. But almost the instant he entertained the thought, he recoiled from the blasphemy of it. How could anyone supersede the Almighty, even Crowley? 

“Come with me,” Crowley said again. “Let me show you the stars.”

Aziraphale was tempted beyond anything he’d ever been tempted by in his incredibly long life. But it was so difficult to think through all this fog, this fading away, this emptiness… 

“Come with me. Please.”

In times of such uncertainty, when faced with too much change, all Aziraphale could cling to was what he’d known since the Beginning: God had put him on the earth to protect humanity.

“Thou shalt love thy neighbor...” Aziraphale whispered miserably, his heart breaking into a million mosaic tiles in every color of the cosmos. 

“…but not thy demon,” Crowley finished for him, pulling back, the barrier from before falling like a heavy curtain between them. 

“Crowley…” Aziraphale trailed off, not able to say what he wanted. _Stay...stay...stay_.

“S’alright, angel,” Crowley said, his smile as forgiving as it was mournful. “If you ever change your mind, look me up, will you?”

Aziraphale felt the wetness on his cheeks at a remove, as if he’d retreated from his own corporation to try to process the pain through a protective layer of firmament.

“So long, Aziraphale,” Crowley said. Then with a final, half-hearted wave, he crossed the street and disappeared from sight into the city. 

“Crowley!” Aziraphale called after him, but it was too late. The demon was already gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One more chapter left, my friends! And once again, I must thank the fabulous [Hapaxnym](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hapaxnym/works) for the inspiring art, [Z A Dusk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snakeandmoon/pseuds/Z%20A%20Dusk/works) for the near-constant cheerleading and encouragement, and both for their incomparable beta work. This story would be the barest shadow of itself without their contributions. <33333
> 
> While you wait for the final chapter to post next week, check out Hapaxnym's and Z A Dusk's fic, as well as all the other gorgeous Reverse Bang fanart/fics in the [Do It With Style Good Omens Reverse Bang Collection](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/goodomens_reversebang_2021)!


	3. Chapter 3

_“Though my soul may set in darkness, it will rise in perfect light; I have loved the stars too truly to be fearful of the night.” – from Sarah Williams, THE OLD ASTRONOMER_

Aziraphale stumbled to a bench some kind, forethoughtful soul had deposited in front of the bookshop. No, not the bookshop. The church. Wait, what church again? Why was there a bench? There had never been a bench in front of his bookshop before.

The fog in his mind thickened to a denser consistency than ever. He pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes as he fought tooth and nail for a shred of clarity. Something had happened, something awful, something…unforgivable. What was it? And why couldn’t he remember it? It had _just_ happened. Hadn’t it?

He’d never felt the fog this thick before. There were days he didn’t remember, but it was never like this. Never anything he _couldn’t_ fight if he wanted to. If he had a reason.

“C-Crowley…”

He held the name like a lifeline, repeating it over and over as if it could somehow rebuild the wisps left of his memory, though he couldn’t recall why it was important. Until finally a thin ray of light penetrated the terrifying blankness, illuminating a single cogent thought: Alpha Centauri.

“I say, are you alright?”

Aziraphale looked up to see a human, peering down at him with a concerned look on their face. The setting sun behind the person limned their edges in a golden halo of light. Aziraphale didn’t understand why, but he felt unaccountably comforted by their presence, as if everything would be alright.

“I-I don’t know. I feel upset, but I can’t remember why.”

“That’s a shame. Is it because the church is being torn down today?”

The human was wearing a shirt with the letters G.O.D. stitched to the left breast pocket, just over where their heart would be.

“God?” Aziraphale said, pointing to the letters.

“What?” the human said, confused. Then they looked at where Aziraphale was pointing and said, “Oh! No, not God. Just G-O-D. Grounds Optimisation Department. I’m in charge of demolition.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale said, the fog receding as the person talked. “I don’t know what happened. I seem to have briefly forgotten why I was here, but it’s starting to come back to me. I know this place. I used to live here.”

“You…used to live in the church?”

“No, before it was a church. It was a…a bookshop.”

The demolitionist arched their eyebrow at him. “Books, eh? My grandfather mentioned that his grandfather saw a book once. Called it The Good Book, if I remember right. Ever hear of it?”

“Once or twice,” Aziraphale said, rubbing his temple. There was something just on the tip of his memory, something important, something related to the bookshop and yet…not.

“Too bad about the building, in any case,” the person said, pulling a small metal sphere out of their pocket. The sphere projected a translucent blue three-dimensional model of the church in the air above their hand. “Must have been beautiful in its day.”

“It’s still beautiful to me,” Aziraphale said. “Mind if I say goodbye before you…?”

“Not at all,” the demolitionist said with clear empathy in their eyes. “Take all the time you need.”

Aziraphale got slowly to his feet, unsteady, though the fog retreated further for some reason, the longer he was in the demolitionist’s company. He walked the few steps to the building’s edifice. Laying a loving hand on its stony surface, he whispered his goodbyes, telling it what a very, very good bookshop it had been.

With a final soft pat, he returned to the demolitionist, nodding his thanks. The demolitionist smiled supportively. 

“It’s always hard to let go of something we’ve held onto for so long, even buildings, even jobs,” the demolitionist said.

“What will you do with the stone?” Aziraphale asked, though he wasn’t sure really wanted to know.

“Pulverize it to dust,” the demolitionist admitted. “Stone’s not really good building material, so there’s no point reusing it. Safer and cheaper to disintegrate it than to dismantle it.”

Aziraphale nodded again. “Of course.”

“S’pose you’ve seen the mosaic inside,” the demolitionist continued. “I tried to get a museum interested in taking it for an exhibit, but they apparently have all the Principality memorabilia they need. Lots of similar mosaics from all over the world, you know.”

“I’m aware,” Aziraphale said, his heart squeezing itself into a painful knot. Something about the mosaic was closer to whatever was upsetting him.

“Well, I should probably get on with it, if it’s all the same. Of course, I’ll leave the Eden wall for last.”

Aziraphale jumped, startled. “What did you just say?”

“I said the eastern wall. That’s the one with the mosaic on it, right?”

“Oh. Oh, yes. Right. The eastern wall.”

“I’ll leave that one for last, out of respect.”

“I appreciate that. Don’t mind me. I’ll just…I’ll just step out of the way then.”

“You’re fine. No danger in it. Just the push of a button, really, and poof.”

“That’s…practically miraculous,” Aziraphale agreed, his heart squeezing even tighter. What was the matter with him? Why couldn’t he call to mind whatever it was that every instinct was clamoring for him to remember?

The demolitionist raised the sphere again, swiping their thumb across the surface, and the blue image of the building changed to a blinking green. Then the demolitionist seemed to pause, thinking. 

“You know, speaking of books, my great-great-grandfather used to have a saying he’d gotten from The Good Book. Said it all the time, according to my grandpa, who then said it to me the day I picked my pronouns. I don’t know why, but I feel like I should tell you.”

Aziraphale looked up, his heart wringing itself so hard that he was nearly breathless. “Yes?”

“It was something like, ‘Everyone who loves is born of God…for God is love.’ That mean anything to you?”

_For love is of God; and every one that loveth is born of God, and knoweth God. He that loveth not knoweth not God; for God is love._

“Caedmon…” Aziraphale said, his heart stopping all at once in his chest. “ _Crowley_.”

His legs suddenly felt unsteady, as if they wouldn’t support his weight. He stumbled back towards the bench and leaned heavily against the back of it. The demolitionist hurried over.

“I’m so sorry,” they said. “I didn’t mean to upset you further.”

Aziraphale forced himself to take a breath and then another. “It wasn’t you, my dear. I simply… It’s just… I lost my best friend.”

“Oh, that’s-that’s awful. Is there anything I can do?”

The demolitionist put their hand on Aziraphale’s shoulder, and all the remnants of fog that had been swirling riotously around in his brain completely cleared as if by magic. Everything he’d been subconsciously panicking about became plain as day.

“The fog…” Aziraphale gasped, his lungs seizing in distress.

“Fog?” the demolitionist repeated, puzzled, looking up at the cloudless sky.

“My power comes from Heaven, but Heaven left. That’s why I’ve been so weak. Crowley must have felt it too. Why didn’t he tell me?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know a Crowley?”

“But I must stay and guard the eastern gate. Mustn’t I? It’s my purpose.”

“Do you need me to contact this Crowley person for you? Sounds like you are in some trouble?”

“I don’t know what the right thing to do is. I’ve never known, not really. I’ve always been told. The only time I’ve ever known anything for myself was when I was protecting someone else.”

“Well, I don’t know your situation, of course. But…if I were to hazard a guess…I’d say the person who needs protecting right now is you.”

Suddenly, everything fell into place. Everything Crowley had tried to tell him, everything the Descendant had said, even the demolitionist’s unwitting revelation. He wasn’t just protecting others from the injustices that came with a marginalized identity. He was protecting _himself_.

For centuries he’d been sympathetic to the plight of those who didn’t fit in, completely disregarding that he was sympathetic not only out of kindness, but because he knew how it felt. That he’d been just as rejected, just as marginalized in his own identity by _his_ family. By Heaven. And in holding so close to who he’d been conditioned to believe he was, he’d denied his own nature for longer than could possibly be defensible.

He’d been so close to understanding so many times. Crowley had understood. Had patiently waited for him to come to terms with his singularity on his own. But Aziraphale had taken all of Crowley’s unflinching, unfailing support for granted. He’d operated on the assumption that it was acceptable for others to assume identities contrary to the identities they’d been given, but that the same was not true, could never be true, for him. 

And it had nearly cost him everything.

“I must go,” Aziraphale said, when he came back to himself and found the demolitionist looking at him in concern. “There is someone I need to see. Immediately.”

“Can I call you a transport?”

“I appreciate the offer, but there’s no need,” Aziraphale said. Then he turned to the demolitionist and took their hands in his. “And thank you. If not for you, I’d still be… Well, I must go.”

He started to cross the street in the direction Crowley had gone, before stopping again and turning back.

“Oh, one more thing,” he said brightly. Then he snapped his fingers, not at all sure the miracle would work but choosing to have faith.

“What’s that?” the demolitionist said, clearly confused.

“Nothing, dear! Enjoy your demolition!”

Then he was hurrying at top speed towards the one place he knew Crowley would be if he were still here on earth. 

It took him nearly ten minutes to get there, ten anxious minutes of the world blurring into a swirl of color around him as he moved supernaturally fast through the streets of London. Ten minutes that might be the difference between finally catching up or losing the one person he loved more than any other, more than all the others combined.

St. James park was, oddly, almost exactly the same as it had been a thousand years ago. People and geese, grass and trees, and Crowley standing near the fence, looking pensively across the water.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale called, his steps faltering. What if Crowley no longer wanted his company? What if Aziraphale had refused him one time too many? What if…?

“Angel?” Crowley said, looking over his shoulder at him with a hurt and befuddled expression. “What are you—?”

Before Crowley could finish the thought, Aziraphale hurled himself into the demon’s arms.

“You’re still here!” Aziraphale gasped, crying in relief. “Thank God!”

“Yeah, well, couldn’t leave without saying goodbye to the ducks, could I?”

“The ducks!” Aziraphale pulled back, clapping his hands. “Of course, the ducks. We can’t leave without feeding them one last time, can we?” He flung out a hand, and bread crumbs scattered magically to the embankment in front of a squawking family of mallards.

“W-we, angel?”

Aziraphale turned to Crowley, cupping his cheek in his hand. “Yes, we. If…if you still want me to come.”

Crowley spluttered, his cheeks flushing with color. “But…but what changed your mind?”

Aziraphale thought of all the reasons, all the moments Crowley had been there, had saved him and supported him and loved him. He thought of all the ways and of all the depths to which he loved Crowley back. Always had done. Since Eden. Seven thousand years. He thought of Heaven’s conditions, of Hell’s punishments, of God’s absence, of humanity’s acceptance, and how none of it meant connection, meant eternity, the way Crowley did.

He could have said any of it, but what came out was…

“I realized there wasn’t enough sushi in the world to make up for the lack of you.”

Then with trepidation, utmost caution, but a thrill in his heart, he leaned forward ever so slightly, and kissed Crowley full on the lips.

After a long, breathless moment, Aziraphale pulled back to see Crowley’s pinched expression dissolving, his shoulders relaxing, and his smile brightening like the sun. 

“Angel,” he said with a sigh. 

“Dear boy,” Aziraphale replied. Then he slipped his hand into Crowley’s, knowing he’d never let go again.

* * *

It was a perfectly uneventful day in St. James park. Most days were perfectly uneventful, because most everyone was perfectly content. And if, for a moment, two men stood near the water, gazing at each other as if the other held all the mysteries of the universe in his hands, then that was hardly remarkable either. 

Love was quite literally all around them—a demolitionist acting as an unwitting emissary from a higher power with a message of love and reprieve; a young Descendant who spent the afternoon conveying the gratitude of generations, even now happening upon a small but exact rendition of the mosaic she so loved, appearing mysteriously on her kitchen table; and a world that, through unsanctioned ethereal intervention and support, had realized its highest ideals.

And if, in the space of a blink, the two men disappeared entirely, leaving nothing but one pure white feather and one black behind them, then the world would go on turning, as it had for the last seven thousand years, as it would until the end of time.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks, everyone, for reading all the way to the end on this one! I know it's a bit of a departure from my usual fare, but I really wanted to explore this idea of reclaiming lost parts of oneself, and claiming other parts that were thought to be unattainable. And I really, really hope that I did half the amount of justice to [Hapaxnym's mosaic](https://photos.app.goo.gl/G2kfWkKfxshBU4XU8) that it deserves. It really is a gorgeous piece of art, and I continue to be inspired by all the thought, effort, and love that [Hapaxnym](https://archiveofourown.org/users/hapaxnym/works) put into it. <3333
> 
> I also have to reiterate that I could not have done without my beloved beta [Z A Dusk](https://archiveofourown.org/users/snakeandmoon/pseuds/Z%20A%20Dusk/works). I mean, I can never do without them, but I especially could not have done without them on this story. All their encouragement and ideas really helped me get this into a readable form. (The same is true of Hapaxnym, btw -- I couldn't have done without either of them!)
> 
> And last but not least, we owe much thanks to the mods and helpers in the Do It With Style Events group. The Reverse Bang, like all of their events, was tons of fun, and very well supported. If you haven't tried one before, give it a go! Just follow [Do It With Style Events](https://do-it-with-style-events.tumblr.com/) on tumblr, or join the [Discord server](https://discord.com/invite/MZsvXkc).
> 
> As always, if you liked this, please feel free to leave a comment. I'll always try to respond quickly, and if not quickly, then at least eventually--depends on how many other events I've signed up for at the moment, lol. Also, check out [my other fic](https://archiveofourown.org/users/miraworos/works) (of which there is a lot in the Good Omens verse), or Hapaxnym's or Z A Dusk's fic (see links above)!

**Author's Note:**

> Two more chapters to go! Chapter 2 will be posted next Tuesday, and chapter 3 will go up the Tuesday after that. If you enjoyed it (and I _know_ you enjoyed the art ;-)), please leave a comment for the team! We will love you forever!!


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